


Long-Time Admirer

by Bryonia_Alba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: D/s if you squint, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 09:18:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11078601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryonia_Alba/pseuds/Bryonia_Alba
Summary: Oliver agrees to meet with a secret admirer, with passionate results.





	Long-Time Admirer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hpvalensmut, February 2012.

Oliver finished dressing, combing back hair still damp from the shower and still basking in the glow of victory. Not just victory, but a career highlight, a win for the ages. Puddlemere United had defeated the Falmouth Falcons hours earlier by the crushing score of 950-0, a thrashing of the sort that would be talked about for decades, if not centuries. He’d shared a major role in that beating, playing the entire fourteen-hour match without allowing a single goal. 

Not a bad day’s work, he thought, mood understandably buoyant. True, it had been a very _long_ day, but it took time for even the most prolific of Chasers to score seven hundred points before Puddlemere’s Seeker finally deigned to capture the Snitch, and the opposing team had had their own, many opportunities to score. He simply hadn’t let them. Oliver smiled, remembering the Falmouth Chasers and their frustration.

“To the pub, lads, or to home?” he called out, already knowing the reply. Despite the epic length of the match just won, the adrenalin still flowed through his veins. A pint was just the ticket before a well-deserved night’s rest. A chorus of ayes met his question, followed soon after by multiple _cracks_ as teammates, coaches, and other staff Disapparated. 

“Oh, here, before I forget,” Davy the equipment manager said, handing Oliver a folded slip of parchment. “This came for you while you were in the shower. Said he was a friend of yours from school.”

“And you believed him?” Oliver took the parchment anyway. Davy was new, and probably not yet fully aware of just how _much_ fan mail he received, or messages from people claiming past friendships. At least the parchment wasn’t drenched in perfume or aftershave, merely sealed with a bit of red wax. Oliver considered binning it, but he was in a good mood; he could afford to be indulgent just this once.

Breaking the wax seal, Oliver opened it, scanning the contents.

_Oliver,_

_Congratulations on your impressive performance in today’s victory. I would be honoured to buy you a celebratory drink and perhaps renew our acquaintance, although it has been several years since we last spoke.  
I will be the one wearing Holyhead green at the pub, almost certainly the only one there not in Puddlemere colours. I look forward to our drink._

_Sincerely,_

_A Long-time Admirer_

“Long-time admirer, my arse,” Oliver murmured, crumpling the parchment before tossing it into the nearest rubbish bin. “I bet the last time we spoke it was in passing between classes or some such rot. Davy, next time you receive a note from an ‘old friend from school’, put it with the rest of the fan mail, won’t you? It’ll save both of us wasted time better spent drinking.” Clapping the man’s shoulder to soothe the sting from his words, Oliver Disapparated.

The Lion’s Share pub was crowded with Puddlemere fans when Oliver arrived. He spent several minutes signing autographs and making small talk with fans eager to congratulate him on his performance during the match before he finally managed to reach the bar and ordered a pint of his favourite stout. Glancing down the length of the bar, Oliver saw there was indeed one solitary man wearing the dark green and gold talon shirt of a Holyhead fan, apparently contemplating the depths of his own ale and ignoring the accidental jostling of Puddlemere revellers. 

What surprised Oliver, though, was that the man actually looked familiar; and after several moments of watching from the corner of his eye, he finally realised where and when he’d last seen the man in green. The last time they’d spoken, he had thanked Oliver for his help carrying the body of a classmate into the Great Hall following the battle at Hogwarts.

Picking up his stout, Oliver made his way over, strangely unsure of how to greet a war hero. He decided to settle on the obvious.

“Longbottom, isn’t it? Neville Longbottom? You were the same year as Potter, right?”

“That’s right.” Neville looked up from his pint, smiling. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. I mean, I knew you’d come, since this is where Puddlemere fans always come after a victory. I wasn’t sure whether or not you’d actually join me. I know it’s been awhile since we last saw each other.”

“You couldn’t have known I’d come alone, though. Mates notwithstanding.” Oliver sipped at his stout, sighing in pleasure. 

“I know you’re not seeing anyone at the moment,” Neville answered, unperturbed. “My best friend happens to be Percy’s little sister. I don’t know the specifics of you and Percy’s break-up, and I don’t _want_ to know unless you choose to tell me, but I hope you won’t hold my friendship with Ginny against me.” 

“Ah. So you’re here to seduce me now that I’m single again, is that it?” It had been six months since Percy had moved out, and other than a one-night stand or three, Oliver hadn’t resumed dating again. 

Neville chuckled. “No, but I can if you want me to. I’m here to buy you a drink, nothing more. Anything else is entirely up to you. I have to admit, though, if you decide you want me to take you home with me, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Because you’re a long-time admirer of mine?” Oliver drank again, watching Neville over the rim of his pint.

“I wasn’t lying, there.” Neville had the good grace to blush. “I’ve always been pants at riding a broomstick, and you always made it look so easy. I’ve been your fan since I was an ickle firstie and you were in fifth year and Keeper on the Gryffindor squad. I doubt you even noticed me back then.”

Oliver paused, thinking. He vaguely recalled a short, plump little boy, always forgetting things and shockingly accident-prone even by Gryffindor standards. When he’d answered Potterwatch’s call to battle several years later, it had been a bit of a shock when he’d recognised the battered, bruised, yet unbowed older Neville in the thick of the fight. It had been even more shocking to see that formerly meek boy face down Voldemort himself and survive to tell the tale.

Other than a round face, Neville barely resembled the eleven-year-old he’d once been. His hands were callused from hard work, his shoulders and chest broad and well-muscled, his cheeks lined with old scars. There was no trace of nervousness in his demeanour, no hint of stammer in his speech. He had changed, and apparently all of those changes had been for the better. It was always good to see someone overcome personal obstacles.

“No, I probably didn’t,” Oliver admitted at last, “but you’re not who you were then, and I’m not either. So tell me, what are you doing now? Last I heard there weren’t any gigantic snakes in need of slaying.”

“I most certainly hope not.” Neville shuddered dramatically. “I’ll never hear the end of it, will I? Actually, I’m the Herbology professor at Hogwarts now, have been since last year. It’s not a glamourous job, but I enjoy it.” He nodded toward the empty barstool beside his. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“I would, but I’ve just spent fourteen hours on a broomstick not that long ago,” Oliver replied. “My arse is still recovering, and the rest of me is pretty sore to boot. If it weren’t for the victory buzz I’d probably be asleep on my feet.” Before, he could look forward to Percy and a nice backrub when he got home, but those days were gone.

Neville made a face, not bothering to hide his regret. “Maybe I should wait another time to buy you that drink, then. The last thing I’d want to do is get you too drunk and tired to make it home safely. I’d never forgive myself if you ended up Splinching.”

“I’m not _that_ far gone. The match where I can’t get up the morning after a drink or a fuck is the day I retire.” Neville’s obvious disappointment went a long way toward allaying Oliver’s own worries. The man had clearly had no ulterior motive beyond buying a drink despite an admitted willingness for more. 

Neville’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “If you say so.”

“I’m sore, yeah, but I’m not incapacitated. I can still drink.”

“Or fuck.” Neville’s lips quirked. “You left that part out.”

“I wouldn’t say no to either.” Oliver rested his arm against the bar. Now, to find out exactly _how_ willing... “You’re the long-time admirer, you tell me.”

Neville didn’t reply immediately, raising his pint to his lips and taking a couple of long, deep swallows. Oliver watched his throat bob, shifting from one foot to the other and trying to banish a sudden mental image of Neville’s throat working the same way while swallowing his cock.

“Is this the part where I tell you I’ve been having lewd fantasies since the first time I saw you kitted out in Puddlemere colours?” Neville asked at last, meeting Oliver’s eyes. 

“Depends. Did you? Or was it when I still wore Gryffindor scarlet and gold? Or are you just trying to get a rise from me?”

“I’m saying that you don’t sound like someone who’s incredibly sore from spending fourteen hours riding a broomstick, is all.” Neville turned back to his pint. “You sound more like someone who would like a ride of another sort entirely. In a very roundabout way, I might add. Am I wrong?”

Neville had certainly learned to speak his mind since their Hogwarts days, Oliver noted admiringly. He liked that. Forthrightness was definitely a trait Oliver liked in a person, especially when it could possibly lead to a potentially enjoyable evening.

“I _am_ sore,” he admitted, “but I was telling the truth about not being so far gone I can’t enjoy a drink and a fuck. Besides, tomorrow I get to have a lie-in. I’ve plenty of time to recover from any...excesses.”

“Where does it hurt?” Neville asked, voice dropping low. “Maybe I can kiss it better.”

Oliver stifled a moan at the idea of Neville’s lips brushing over his aching, throbbing muscles. “I like the way you think,” he murmured. “You can probably guess where it hurts the most.”

“Well, then.” Neville tossed some coins onto the bar. “We’ll have to take this somewhere else if I’m going to take a look.”

“Yeah.” Oliver hurriedly finished his stout. “Elsewhere is good. Your place, I believe you mentioned earlier?”

It took a few minutes to push their way through the crowded pub, out the door, and onto the pavement. Oliver took Neville’s hand, tugging him into the nearby alley and up against the brick wall, leaning in for a kiss, arching against the other man as Neville cupped his arse, kneading gently.

“Here?” Neville breathed against his lips. His hand slid down the back of Oliver’s trousers, rubbing carefully along the outside of his cleft. Squeezing a cheek, he pressed his mouth to Oliver’s in another kiss, nipping at his lower lip before angling his head to kiss him more deeply. Oliver could feel Neville’s erection pressing against his belly, and he groaned, rubbing shamelessly against Neville’s body.

“Your place, remember?”

“Mmmm, yes.” Neville wrapped his fingers around Oliver’s upper arms in a firm grip. “Hold on.”

The warning was followed immediately by the intense squeezing sensation of Apparation, and then they were outside the Hogwarts gates. Neville grabbed his hand, pulling him onto school grounds and toward one of the greenhouses.

“I’d forgotten you couldn’t Apparate inside Hogwarts,” Oliver said with a breathless laugh. “Must get damned awkward sometimes.”

“Only when I need to sneak someone past the students,” Neville replied, and snickered. “Besides, I usually Floo. You _would_ choose a pub not connected to the network.”

Stopping at a greenhouse, Neville opened the door. Once inside he pushed Oliver against the glass and kicked the door shut, dropping his head to suck at Oliver’s throat, hand busily opening his trousers and slipping his fingers inside. “Tell me what you like,” he murmured into Oliver’s ear. Oliver groaned at Neville’s sudden, forceful movements, the friction of work-roughened fingers moving over his prick and the nipping bites of Neville’s mouth at his throat leaving him a quivering mass of lust. 

“Merlin’s beard,” he gasped, tipping back his head and pushing his hips forward into the firm grip of Neville’s large, lovely hands. “I...whatever you want.” He pushed against Neville’s hand again. “Rough, hard, dirty, whatever you want.” 

Neville grinned at Oliver’s request. Keeping one hand inside Oliver’s trousers, he slid his fingers down further to cup Oliver’s balls inside his underpants, using the other to pull Oliver’s shirt further down so he could suckle more skin. He nipped and bit his way along the collarbone, lips moving gradually inward before sucking hard at the hollow at the base of Oliver’s throat. Oliver pulled back long enough to tug his shirt over his head, and Neville began licking his way down Oliver’s sternum, massaging his balls all the while, letting his other hand wander freely over newly bared skin to tweak a nipple or to scrape his nails across Oliver’s arse, giving it an occasional squeeze.

Giving the lowest curve of ribcage one last, hard nip, Neville dropped onto his knees, looking up and smiling. “Let’s start here, shall we?” Leaning forward, he kissed Oliver’s navel, tongue swirling into the indentation.

Oliver sucked in a sharp, hissing breath as Neville’s tongue dipped into his navel, wondering when it had become an erogenous zone. His head fell back against the wall with a dull thump, barely noticed through the fog of lust hazing his brain. He looked down at his companion kneeling before him, raising his hand and letting it comb through rich brown hair. It felt like rough silk between his fingers, thick and warm.

Neville licked his way down from Oliver’s navel, tugging his trousers down just past his hips as he went, and took Oliver’s cock into his mouth with one great slide of lips and tongue. Heat flooded his entire body as Oliver’s erection was suddenly engulfed in wet, wicked warmth. His fingers curled into Neville’s hair, encouraging him while he licked and sucked and slid his tongue along the underside vein. 

“Mmm,” Neville hummed languidly as his lips slid up and down a moment longer before pulling away, and Oliver whimpered his frustration at the loss of that delicious sensation of tongue and suction. Perhaps sensing his despair, Neville smiled and added, “I thought maybe we should take this to bed, unless you’d prefer up against the wall. Not that I’d mind, you realise.”

“Bed. Right.” Oliver nodded, grasping for what few tatters of self-discipline remained to him. It had been so long since he’d last had his cock in someone’s mouth, longer still since someone had last controlled and channelled his lusts with such precision.

Neville dropped a kiss on the tip of Oliver’s prick and stood, slinging an arm across his shoulders. “Follow me, then. I can’t wait to see your arse.”

Oliver followed, holding up his trousers with one hand.

Neville’s quarters were located at the rear of the greenhouse, inside a renovated storage area converted into a cosy ground floor flat. Oliver barely had time to catch more than glimpses of a kitchenette, a desk, and a sofa before he found himself propelled into the single bedroom, where his trousers were quickly tugged off completely and he was deposited onto the bed. 

The springs creaked as he bounced, cock trapped between his belly and the patchwork quilt atop the bed. Quickly, before Neville could even ask, he scrambled up onto his hands and knees, arching his back, his breath coming in needy pants.

“Merlin,” he groaned, anticipating. He couldn’t help but wonder what Neville must think of his obvious desperation, his need to be touched and fucked.

He heard the sound of Neville undressing, followed by the feel of the mattress dipping as he climbed up onto the bed behind Oliver. He shivered as Neville placed his hands against his arsecheeks, squeezing gently.

“Oh, yes,” Neville murmured his approval. “Very nice.” 

Oliver whined as rough palms and blunt fingers began moving across his skin, nerve endings singing when Neville placed a kiss between his shoulderblades before journeying slowly down his spine, licking along each knob and nipping with sharp teeth as he went. Oliver pressed back into each caress, driven wild by the seemingly endless combination of touches, bites, licks and kisses as Neville moved inexorably lower. 

He gasped when Neville kissed the small of his back, then down even further, dipping his tongue between Oliver’s cheeks. Oliver’s breathing stuttered, hands fisting the quilt. A moment later he felt a wet finger press gently against his hole, until just the tip was inside.

Oliver let out a small, choking sound of protest when that teasing fingertip slipped out of him a few seconds later, but it was only so Neville could Summon lube from the bedside table. He caught a whiff of fresh, green scent before Neville’s finger was back, coating his cleft with cool lubricant. He felt the tip of Neville’s cock against his hole soon after, Neville’s voice low and rough behind him.

“Tell me what you want. Do you want me to fuck you, push into you soft and slow, or slam forward until you think you might break?” Neville slid forward, just a bit, and just as quickly pulled back. “Do you want to feel me come inside you, want me pumping you so hard my balls slap against yours? Tell me you want it. Is that what you want?”

Oliver’s breath caught as Neville’s heated, filthy words filled his ears, twisting his insides in joyful lust, feeling that thick cock pressing against his hole, just _there_ , waiting for him to say _something_ , and the floodgates broke, spilling wide.

“Please!” he groaned past gritted teeth. “Please, please, fuck me hard, fuck me fast oh god Neville need you inside me now, please now please please please, all of it, I want all of it, oh please...”

He was still begging when Neville grasped his hips and surged forward, entering him hard and fast, pumping in and out at a furious pace. Oliver screamed in ecstasy as he felt himself being split in two, filled abruptly with throbbing heat, slick and burning against his grasping hole. Neville’s hands were tight and rough curving around his hips, the slap of skin on skin echoing throughout the room, punctuated with the rhythmic creak of bedsprings. Oliver shoved back against each brutal thrust, fingers scrabbling at the quilt, begging wordlessly with his body for more, because it seemed he’d temporarily forgotten anything resembling regular speech.

Neville continued pounding into him. “Like this, rammed up that greedy arse? Do you want me to touch you, put my hand on your cock and stroke until you come screaming?” He bit down at the juncture of Oliver’s neck and shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and Oliver did scream at that, torn between agony and ecstasy.

“Oh fuck,” he babbled, “oh fuck ohhh fuck me...”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” One calloused hand crept around Oliver’s hip, gripping his cock loosely and running his thumb over the copiously dripping tip, not slowing in the slightest despite each jarring, smacking thrust. He swiped across the glans again, thumbnail scraping the sensitive flesh. Oliver cried out, and then Neville’s thumb was at his lips, pushing into his mouth. “Suck, Oliver. I want you to taste what I do to you.”

Oliver obeyed without thinking, sucking Neville’s thumb into his mouth, licking away every salty drop of precome, letting his tongue swirl wantonly as he sucked and moaned his appreciation around the digit, hips still pushing back against each punishing stroke of Neville’s cock in his arse, giving everything he could while wanting more, wanting faster, harder, _more_.

Neville let him suck awhile longer before pulling his thumb free of Oliver’s mouth, rubbing the wetness down his chin and throat before wrapping his arm around Oliver, fingers closing once more around his cock. He squeezed once, hard, and stilled. Oliver wailed, hips rocking frantically, but there was no longer anything to push against, just enough to maintain the smallest bit of friction as Neville matched his desperate movements.

“You want to come, don’t you.” Neville’s breath was hot in his ear. Oliver moaned, nodding. “You want to feel me come inside you, hot and slick, your tight arse squeezing around me for every drop.” 

Oliver nodded again. “Yesss...”

“Good. I want you to come for me. I want you to come in my hand, and then I’m going to fill your hole, and I want to hear you scream and cry when you do.”

“Please, Neville,” Oliver begged. “Let me come, please, oh please, I’m so close...”

Neville’s hand squeezed his prick, tugging and twisting and pulling, and it felt so good as Neville resumed pounding his arse. Oliver threw back his head, a strangled howl erupting from his throat. His throbbing cock twitched, pulsing, and he came, semen spilling hot and wet over Neville’s blunt fingers and rough, warm palm.

He felt Neville spasm inside him moments later, pumping into Oliver’s slick, welcoming heat. Oliver squeezed around him as Neville gasped through his release. “Fuck, Oliver, fuck, yes, ohhhh fuck.” 

Neville finally stilled, his cock still resting inside Oliver until he felt it slip out of its own accord. Rolling to one side, he flopped onto his back beside Oliver, pulling him close. “That was amazing,” he said, sounding slightly breathless. Oliver couldn’t blame him; he was busy trying to catch his breath as well.

Oliver turned his head, pressing his lips to Neville’s. His tongue stroked languidly along the other man’s before he pulled back, whispering, “We ought to clean up.”

“Yeah,” Neville said. “I don’t really want to move, but you’re right.”

“Where’s my wand?” Oliver propped himself on one elbow, his eyes searching the floor and frowning when he didn’t spot it right away.

Neville twisted, hanging off the edge of the bed. “Your trousers are over there,” he said. Leaning out precariously, he snagged the hem and pulled them onto the bed. “I think we left your shirt in the greenhouse.”

Fortunately, Oliver’s wand was safely in a pocket. Pulling it out, he tossed the trousers back onto the floor before casting a quick, thorough cleaning charm on both of them before doing the same to the rumpled patchwork quilt. Setting the wand on the bedside table next to the lube, he lay back down, wrapping around Neville, one hand stroking his flank. “Much better.”

“Thanks,” Neville said, yawning. Rubbing his cheek against Oliver’s, he let out a sigh. “I hope you’re willing to stay for breakfast.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Neville kissed Oliver, this one soft and gentle compared to the much rougher exertions only a few minutes past. “Budge up a bit so I can get the covers over us. It’s getting a bit chilly in here.”

The quilt and blankets were cosy and welcoming as Neville settled them around their bodies. Oliver snuggled into them gratefully, curling against Neville’s warmth. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Oliver felt the brush of lips ghosting over his hair, and remembered nothing more.

~*~*~*~*~

Oliver awoke in a strange bed to the wonderful aroma of brewing coffee. Rubbing his eyes, he winced as aching muscles protested. It took a moment before his sleep-fogged brain remembered where he was and how he had ended up tangled in sheets not his own. Oliver stretched, grimacing as new aches made themselves known, along with a different, not unpleasant soreness between his arsecheeks. He smiled and sat up in bed, looking for his clothes.

They were nowhere in sight. There was, however, a pair of neatly folded grey track pants and a black T-shirt resting on a nearby chair. Oliver pulled them on and made his way into the kitchen, where he found Neville making breakfast. Accepting the steaming mug Neville held out to him, he gave Neville a kiss on the cheek and sat down at the tiny kitchen table.

“What time is it?” he asked, sipping from the mug and making a small noise of approval. 

“Nearly ten,” Neville answered. “You mentioned last night you were looking forward to a lie-in, so I didn’t wake you. Besides, you looked so peaceful, it seemed a shame to make you get up before you were ready. Eggs?”

Oliver grinned. “Yes, please!”

Neville set the plate of eggs in front of him, along with a couple slices of toast and some strips of bacon. Oliver picked up his fork, and Neville kissed the top of his head before going to fix his own plate.

“I’m glad the clothes fit,” Neville said, joining him at the table. “I figured we were of a size, but I couldn’t be absolutely certain. The house-elves took the ones you were wearing to have them cleaned, but I imagine they’ll return them in an hour or so. I may not actually live in the castle itself, but they still take tidying up very seriously. I hope you weren’t thinking I was holding you prisoner as some kind of sex slave or anything like that.”

“If you were planning on holding me as a sex slave I doubt you would have bothered with the clothes,” Oliver replied, taking a bite of eggs. “I would have woken up chained to the bed, more like.”

“True. It’s probably just as well I’m a mild-mannered professor of Herbology instead of a crazed fiend.” Neville smiled, undoubtedly as aware as Oliver in knowing he’d been anything but mild-mannered the previous night. “Do you have any plans for today? Post-match meetings or flying practice or anything like that?”

Oliver shook his head. “No, not until tomorrow. The day after matches I’m usually sleeping off a hangover. It’s been a long time since I slept in until ten, though. I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“You played a fourteen-hour match yesterday,” Neville pointed out, “and had a rather late night after that. You’re entitled.”

“What about you? Do you have weeding or watering to do? Or is it too early to think of lesson plans and other professorial doings?”

“No, no lesson plans. Not yet, anyway. I do have some hybrids I need to work on, but it’s nothing that can’t wait. Plants aren’t like potions, for the most part. They won’t explode or turn nasty if they’re not watered at a certain time, or if a bit too much fertiliser is added to the soil. They’re much more forgiving.”

They finished breakfast, and Neville carried their plates to the sink. “You can shower if you want,” he said, grabbing a bottle of dish soap and preparing to wash up the breakfast dishes. “I imagine the hot water will help with any sore muscles you have.”

A shower sounded heavenly, and not only for the prospect of hot water. Oliver liked a clean body to go with clean clothes. “Okay. Give me half an hour.”

“Take as long as you need. That’s another nice thing about living on school grounds – the hot water never runs out.”

Oliver took him at his word, revelling in the hot water as it pounded the soreness from his back and shoulders, scrubbing himself thoroughly with herbal-scented soap. His fingers and toes were white and wrinkled when he finally shut off the water. Drying his hair, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed back into the bedroom to dress.

Neville was already there, making the bed. He looked up when Oliver walked in and dropped the pillow in his hands, walking over and snaking an arm around Oliver, pulling him close.

“I love how freshly scrubbed and pink you look,” Neville whispered before kissing him, his lips soft and slow and gentle, one hand trailing up Oliver’s bare arm. “Plus, you smell amazing. How do you feel about staying in today, seeing as neither of us have plans?”

Oliver bit his lip, conflicted. This was the part where things could get complicated. Staying in sounded wonderful, and he wanted to do it; but if he agreed would they end up at odds? Would it give Neville false expectations? Would it give _him_ false expectations?

There was only one way to find out, really. Lifting one hand, he tangled his fingers in Neville’s hair and said in a low voice, “Well, of course I smell amazing. I used _your_ soap and shampoo, after all. Besides, the team’s not going anywhere.”

“I suppose not.” Neville’s chuckle was deep and husky as he kissed Oliver again. Oliver let it deepen, relishing the brilliant feeling of Neville’s body pressed against his own. The kiss ended with Neville’s forehead pressed against his own as he asked, “Should I let you go so you can get dressed?”

Oliver drew a deep breath when Neville’s lips left his. “Not right away. We’re staying in, remember?” He pulled Neville’s face to his again and kissed the side of his mouth. “After last night, I think a backrub might be in order, at the very least.”

“What I’d really love to do is pull this towel off and slide myself inside you,” Neville murmured. “You’re absolutely right, though. A backrub is most definitely in order. We can decide where to proceed from there.”

His heart sped up at the hidden promise and potential in Neville’s words. Meeting his eyes, he said softly, “I can’t complain about that.” Kissing Neville again, Oliver trailed his hands down Neville’s chest, wondering what the future held. He wanted him, his long-time admirer, and he saw no reason to keep him waiting.

“We can decide later,” Oliver agreed. “After the backrub.”


End file.
